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[This post originally appeared in Dullicious, where I blogged as Barbie-dull for several years.]

Aziraphale (an Angel, and part-time rare book dealer) and Crowley (an Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards), are in Crowley’s Bentley. One particularity is that all tapes left in a car for more than a fortnight metamorphose into Best of Queen albums.

Somewhere around Chiswick, Aziraphale scrabbled vaguely in the scree of tapes in the glove compartment.
“What’s a Velvet Underground?” he said.
“You wouldn’t like it,” said Crowley.
“Oh,” said the angel dismissively. “Be-bop.”
“Do you know, Aziraphale, that probably if a million human beings were asked to describe modern music, they wouldn’t use the term ‘be-bop’?” said Crowley.
“Ah, this is more like it. Tchaikovsky,” said Aziraphale, opening a case and slotting its cassette into the Blaupunkt.
“You won’t enjoy it,” sighed Crowley. “It’s been in the car for more than a fortnight.”
A heavy bass beat began to thump the Bentley as they sped past Heathrow.
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed.
“I don’t recognize this,” he said. “What is it?”
“It’s Tchaikovsky’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust,'” said Crowley, closing his eyes as they went through Slough.
To while away the time as they crossed the sleeping Chilterns, they also listened to William Byrd’s “We Are the Champions” and Beethoven’s “I Want To Break Free.” Neither were as good as Vaughan Williams’s “Fat-Bottomed Girls.”